


you are not alone in this

by the_eighth_sin



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: BDSM, D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_eighth_sin/pseuds/the_eighth_sin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fix-it fic, with a twist.</p>
<p>"When he first lays out the proposal, both of them are shocked, wide eyed with wonder, breath catching in their chests, four hearts beating faster with want.</p>
<p>He says “You could be beautiful”, he says “Lets travel the universe together”, he says, “I will get on my knees for you, every day until the end of time if you just leave them alone. Leave here. That’s a reasonable trade, yes? Me, for a piddly little planet you didn’t want to begin with?” </p>
<p>“You’ll call me Master?” he asks, and the Doctor nods, as much as he can with his forehead still lashed to the bench. </p>
<p>“I will do whatever you ask.” he says, and he means it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are not alone in this

**Author's Note:**

> Please take heed of the warnings and know that this is kind of a twisted and terrible example of actual BDSM and/or proper BDSM etiquette, but that's what I was going for. 
> 
> Also, aliens and psychopaths that’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.
> 
> [ Sort of inspired by this ](http://drinkingzaynsgatorade.tumblr.com/post/31808856688/openpandorica-his-little-wink-because-this-is)

When he first lays out the proposal, both of them are shocked, wide eyed with wonder, breath catching in their chests, four hearts beating faster with want.

He says “You could be beautiful”, he says “Lets travel the universe together”, he says, “I will get on my knees for you, every day until the end of time if you just leave them alone. Leave here. That’s a reasonable trade, yes? Me, for a piddly little planet you didn’t want to begin with?” 

“You’ll call me Master?” he asks, and the Doctor nods, as much as he can with his forehead still lashed to the bench. 

“I will do whatever you ask.” he says, and he means it. 

-

They spend one hundred years learning each other, how to be around each other every minute of every day, because the Doctor may belong to his Master in body, but he still feels like a jailer in his soul. 

The Doctor learns what his Master likes, what he wants, learns to read him and anticipate him and, most importantly, to breathe through the pain. 

He learns how it feels to be tied completely immobile, naked and stretched along the harsh metal of the TARDIS floor.

He learns what it feels like to hurt from wanting and to be desperate to touch. He learns more about pleasure and pain in those first 2 weeks than he had in the previous 900 years. 

-

His Master is not a patient teacher, he takes and takes and never gives anything tangible in return. Except maybe the bruises and rope burn, the scars and aches, the taste of him, the touch of him, engraved on the skin of his Doctor.

-

They fight about everything. The Doctor may secede to his Master in the end, but he’s mouthy. His Master likes that sometimes, likes his rambling sentences and debates about the ethics of meddling with time, likes it even more when he gets to shut him up, with his fingers sometimes, or his cock. 

His Master drowns out the ever present sound of the drums with the noises the Doctor makes, actions timed perfectly so that his moans and whimpers and desperate begging cover the incessant TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP.

They argue, all the time, and it’s not a surprise. It’s perfect actually, gives the Doctor a little something to cling to when his whole world seems to be shaking apart.

They don’t kiss, at first, and none of this is like anything the Doctor has done before. It’s not like his love for the people of Earth, who are so ignorant and can be so cruel, but many of whom choose to be kind instead. 

It’s not like Rose and the way the depth of his feeling for her felt like it would sweep him away sometimes. 

It’s not like any of the in between people, the nights he shrugged off his coat and stepped into something darker and tighter and sprawled against walls of Earth clubs, the only place he knows he won’t be judged for what he wants, for what he needs. 

There are so many parts him nobody gets to see. He has to show his Master though. 

That’s one of the rules.

They only have two, after all. 

They don’t lie. Ever. Not to each other, not about anything. And it’s hard at first, hard to say “I can’t. I can’t” when his Master asks “Can you do that for me?” instead of just swallowing back his protests and trying, because the lives of all those humans depend on his submission, on him being willing to do anything he is asked.

The other rule is unspoken. They don’t ever talk about Gallifrey. They don’t talk about the silver-leafed trees and the hulking mountains and the red grass, they don’t talk about their childhood, about how it was growing up with people as old as time itself. It goes unmentioned, no matter how often the words rise up in the Doctor’s throat and choke him, bring tears to his eyes faster than his Master ever has, with all of his instruments and his intimate knowledge of everything the Doctor is.

-

The first time they kiss is one of the rare times they are on a relatively equal level, because the Doctor and his Master are the only two Time Lords left, and the universes still need them. So they are running from yet another victory, because as little as his Master wants to help, he’s also not letting the Doctor run amok amongst the planets. That wasn’t what they agreed.

They are running and panting and the Doctor is smiling, face split with a huge grin and when they finally stop, barricade themselves in the TARDIS and let her fly, the Doctor realises his Master is smiling too and he leans over the TARDIS’ console, hands still gripping tightly to her and he kisses the very corner of that smile. 

The Doctor had never known when to stop. He just pushes and pushes with all of his might and hopes that everything will turn out okay.

His Master looks shocked for a moment, eyes widening a fraction and then he’s pushing the Doctor to his knees and crouching in front of him and he’s worried, so very worried, because he’s begun to trust his Master, had to, but this thing he is feeling might not go both ways and that could break everything and why was he so stupid to think that was a good idea, to forget that this is his duty, his punishment, the only way he can atone for all of the awful things he has done?

But his Master is pushing him down, flat against the crisscross metal of the TARDIS’ floor and smiling down at him, sitting across his thighs, weight heavy and familiar and he’s pushing the Doctor’s arms to either side of his body and murmuring “Keep them there”, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the TARDIS.

Their second kiss is different. His Master presses him to the floor and leans down and down and down in tiny increments until his breath is ghosting across the Doctor’s mouth, following the gusts of air with his tongue and his teeth, not dipping inside, not until the Doctor is whimpering and asking, “Please, oh please”, no shame in this defeat, not after all this time.

“Come now, I know you can do better than that” and his arms are held down by the weight of his Master’s expectation and when he opens his mouth again, he begins begging against his Master’s mouth, tells him all the ways he wants to be hurt and healed and gentled, all the ways he wants his Master to twist him into impossible shapes, how he wants to be kissed until his mouth burns, until he can taste nothing but his Master, can feel nothing but him, how he wants nothing more but to please his Master. 

Four hearts are beating in tandem, chests heaving, and his Master is kissing him proper, tongues sliding together and in this his Master is gentle and it startles the Doctor to feel that tenderness. He closes his eyes against the shining ceiling of his lovely TARDIS, and they kiss and kiss until the Doctor can’t feel his arms, and he’s given up forcing words out of his aching mouth, given up begging with his body too. He’s completely lax, muscles past the point of tension and he doesn’t know what he wants, he just wants.

It’s a time to think of their past and when his Master finally rises, the Doctor rolls onto his hands and knees and follows him, knowing exactly where he is headed. It’s not the same bench, but it has the same configuration of straps and buckles and his Master doesn’t even need to ask him to undress before he’s doing it, standing up for the few seconds it takes to strip off layers of material and settled on the bench, head lowered submissively all the while.

The straps, when fastened, run across his forehead and his chin, across his chest and stomach, around his forearms and his upper thighs. They keep the Doctor completely immobile and he sinks back into the cold material of the bench and he waits. 

His Master returns with a length of rope and a gleam in his eyes that spells only good things to the Doctor, shining brightly in the muted light of the TARDIS. He lays the rope on the Doctor’s chest, the end curling over his left most heart. 

His Master presses a sharp thumbnail to nipple and presses and presses until he’s writing against the restraints.

His Master nips delicate skin between his thumb and forefinger, leaves red marks already starting to bruise, all over the Doctor, dented skin and hitched breaths. It hurts, but his Master knows how much he can take. He knows everything.

His Master winds the rope around the insistent length of his erection until his own pleasure stops feeling so desperate and all he wishes is to appease his Master. 

His Master rubs the abrasive end of the rope across the sensitive skin of his groin, wetness smearing, blood pounding, but the Doctor holds his breath and he waits. This is all for his Master and he mustn't forget that.

His Master reclines the bench, until it lies almost horizontal, and then he climbs atop the Doctor and presses his knees into the Doctor’s aching chest and asks him to beg, beg for permission to touch, to taste, to do anything, whatever his Master wants.

-

When his Master finally comes, standing over the Doctor’s head, cock pressing down the back of his throat, so that he chokes on it, the Doctor doesn’t know whether to ask to be freed or ask to be hurt or ask for his Master to unwind the restrictive rope and fold two fingers inside the Doctor’s body and make him fall apart like that, with nothing but the tips of his fingers and the strength of his will.

He forgets for a second that he has no command over his Master.

Eventually, his Master frees him from the straps and ropes and helps him to dress, tying his tie and pressing a gentle kiss to the Doctor’s forehead, helping his shrug on his coat and embedding his teeth into the thin skin of the Doctor’s throat, helps him step into his shoes, on his knees below the Doctor. 

And he strokes his hands along the bones of the Doctor’s feet and ankles and he smiles upwards at his Doctor, completely at ease. 

He takes his hand and they step out into yet another troubled time with the knowledge that they belong entirely to each other now, that they need nothing but this - the Doctor and his Master, the Master and his Doctor, and the TARDIS, who lets them travel the universes, lets them spend days hovering at the edge of supernova’s, lets them witness the end of civilisation after civilisation, lets them fall slowly, inexorably, in love while they travel all of time and space.

**Author's Note:**

> The premise for this is part my fault and part queerly_it_is’. I was doing by annual DW re-watch and I tweeted “THEY WERE THE ONLY ONES LEFT” and he shouted something back and it very quickly devolved into us capslock tweeting at each other, and then I watched The End Of Time again and I got all these D/s feelings because ‘THE MASTER IS THE DOCTORS ACTUAL MASTER ALSO BONDAGE OH BOYS’ so yeah. It went from there. 
> 
> So thanks for that Dan.
> 
> I don't imagine I'll add to this, but I'm always open to the possibility.
> 
> Title and inspiration is taken from Timshel by Mumford and Sons
> 
> I hope you all like it! Feel free to comment/kudos and tell your friends!


End file.
